Sunday 9 January 2022

There are thirty-six individual steps on the stairs leading down to the car park outside the former Springburn library and museum. A long way to fall, and even more so at 1 a.m. on a cold, damp night in early January.

At least, that’s how it seemed to Fergus Michie as he stared down at the body lying flat on its front at the bottom. It was a bird – he could make out that much. Dressed in one of those long parkas with the fur trim his own missus had been on at him to get her for her Christmas. He’d eventually caved in. Bought her a knock-off at the Barras and crossed his fingers she’d not know the difference. So far, he seemed to have got away with it. He wondered if this one was the real thing. Hard to tell from this distance.

She wasn’t moving. That didn’t seem like a good sign.

‘Aw, shite.’

He glanced back the way he’d come, towards Atlas Road, silent as a stealth fart at this ill-gotten hour. Like it or not, this was his problem.

‘Aw, shite,’ he repeated, this time with feeling.

Turning on his tail, he hurried back out to the road, looking both ways. All quiet on the western front, as his old man had been fond of saying – the meaning of which he’d never managed to work out. Then, he heard it. Quiet, far-off – a car approaching from the south, out Sighthill way.

A minute later, a police car came cruising into view. Blue lights dark, siren silent. In no particular hurry.

Acting more by instinct than conscious thought, Fergus stepped out into the path of the approaching vehicle, waving his arms like an air traffic controller and shouting, ‘Oi! OI!!!’

The car slowed, coming to a halt a few feet in front of him. He watched, breathless from his exertions, as the doors opened and two officers – a man and a woman – got out. As they slowly approached the seemingly deranged man standing in the middle of the road, the older of the two, middle-aged and heavyset, raised a calming hand.

‘Whoa, there, whoa!’ called PC Gordon Waugh. ‘Easy does it, sonny. Where’s the fire?’

‘It’s no a fire!’ Fergus shot back, practically spluttering in indignation at the cop’s altogether too relaxed demeanour. ‘It’s a . . . it’s a BOADY!’

‘A body, is it? What sort of a body? Like a dead body?’

‘Looked pretty deid fae where I wis staundin.’

‘That right, sonny? Well, we shall have to consider this very—’

But Fergus was no longer listening. Concluding that the matter was unlikely to be resolved without drastic action, he turned, cutting Waugh off midstream, and set off at a decidedly ungainly canter, heading back towards the steps.

It worked. Whether by force of habit or because he genuinely believed the apparently unhinged man in front of him was trying to flee a potential crime scene, Waugh immediately gave chase, his younger colleague hot on his heels. They caught up with Fergus at the top of the steps and came to a halt, gazing down in unison at the bundle lying in the pool of the streetlamp at the bottom.

Waugh took in the sight for several seconds, then looked at Fergus, as if expecting a full and frank explanation as to how it had got there. For a moment, Fergus just stared back at him, eyes headlight-wide, before repeating the mantra uttered at least once in the life of every Glaswegian ne’er-do-well.

‘It wasnae me.’

Waugh considered this for a moment. Then:

‘Don’t move,’ he snapped.

He and his younger colleague made their way gingerly down the steps, Waugh’s hand trailing the handrail lest he come a cropper himself. Fanning out, they approached the body cautiously in a pincer movement.

‘Miss? You all right there?’

No response or sign of movement.

Taking his pencil torch from his duty belt, Waugh dropped to a crouch, tilting the beam this way and that as he examined the body. The woman’s head was turned at a ninety-degree angle. The mousy brown hair at the back of her skull was matted with blood. A single, wide-open eye stared up unseeingly.

Tucking the torch behind his ear, Waugh dug out a pair of disposable gloves and snapped them on before pressing his fingers to the woman’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

Nothing.

Slowly, Waugh got to his feet, dipping his chin as he murmured into the radio clipped to his stab vest.

‘Control, this is Sierra Six-Four. We’ve got an adult female, unresponsive, query deceased, at the foot of the steps behind the old Springburn library off Atlas Road. Requesting immediate backup and ambulance, over.’

He turned to his colleague, who’d remained a few paces back, watching the entire performance attentively.

‘Right, then, young PC Hardacre,’ he declared. ‘For the avoidance of any doubt, it’s vitally important that we preserve the locus and avoid interfering with the body until such time as the medical professionals get here. You may find it helpful to keep your hands in your pockets to avoid the temptation to touch anything.’

PC Kelly Hardacre – who, in her six and a half weeks as a probationer, had more than got the measure of her partner and would-be mentor – chose not to point out that all of this had already occurred to her.

‘Aw, shite.’

The two officers turned to find Fergus standing just a couple of feet away, gawping wide-eyed at the body.

‘I distinctly remember telling you to stay put, sonny,’ said Waugh.

‘But . . . but I know her.’

‘You know her?’

‘Aye. That’s Leanne.’

‘Leanne? Leanne who?’

‘I dunno. Just Leanne. I see her about. Her and her man stay down on Millbrae Avenue. Two of ’em are aye at each other’s throats. Their fights’re the stuff o’ legend round here.’

Waugh stared at Fergus, not sure what to make of this. Perhaps this big lumpen oaf wasn’t the complete doughball he’d initially pegged him for after all. Mind you, it didn’t do to inadvertently give the impression that a member of the public might know more about what was going on than you, especially in front of a junior officer. Time to take control of the situation.

‘I’m going to have to ask you to step back, sir,’ he declared, adopting his best ‘dispersing crowds at Hampden Park’ voice. ‘You’re contaminating a potential crime scene.’

‘Crime scene?’ Fergus’s eyes lit up in excitement. ‘Ye mean some’dy pushed her?’

‘STEP. BACK. SIR!’ barked Waugh.

Fergus did as he was told, reversing several steps. He stood and watched from a respectable distance, his expression verging on petulant.

Waugh circled the body, examining it carefully, stroking his chin. Hardacre continued to watch, thumbs tucked into her stab vest, her expression studiously neutral.

‘Well, then, PC Hardacre,’ said Waugh, turning to face her. ‘This is quite a brain-tickler we have here, wouldn’t you say?’

Hardacre, who knew by now that Waugh enjoyed few things more than the sound of his own voice, gave a mild ‘mm’ which she hoped conveyed the right combination of curiosity and unworldliness.

‘Yes,’ Waugh mused ponderously, ‘once the forensic bods get here, I imagine they’ll have plenty to say about the scene before us. They may note, for example, the positioning of the body: the lack of consistency with a fall. You’ll see that her arms are down by her sides, whereas, if either you or I were to take a tumble down a flight of steps in the dark, we’d instinctively put out our hands to break the fall. With me so far?’

‘So far,’ agreed Hardacre, careful to play the part of someone whose own head was devoid of independent thought.

‘They’ll note, too, the lack of obvious injuries, besides that crack to the back of her noggin – almost certain to be determined as the cause of death at the postmortem. Again, hardly consistent with a fall down a flight of steps, is it?’

‘If you say so, PC Waugh.’

Waugh wagged a shrewd finger at his colleague. ‘I’ve been in this game for a wee while now, young Hardacre, and let me tell you, there’s not much that slips past me. Of course, it’s not our place to offer up our opinions on these matters. Best left to those of an appropriate pay grade. But we have minds, as well as eyes and ears, and we can deduce a lot, even without the benefit of a string of letters after our names.’

He clocked Fergus, listening every bit as attentively as Hardacre – perhaps more so. He made a show of glancing down at the body again briefly, before once more addressing his audience of two.

‘Make no mistake: someone put this young lassie here, with the express intent of her being found.’

Friday 18 February

She was running late, which wasn’t like her at all.

Anna hurried up the steps to the upper level of Edinburgh’s Waverley Station, pushing through crowds of people in considerably less of a hurry than her while clutching the metre-high, plastic-wrapped devil’s ivy she’d belatedly remembered to buy as a housewarming gift. 6:45 on a Friday evening – you’d think, after a long week at the coalface, this lot would want nothing more than to get home as quickly as possible.

She emerged into the late winter darkness of Princes Street and spent a few seconds getting her bearings. Despite its relatively close proximity to Glasgow – a mere forty-seven minutes on the express service – she’d never had much cause to visit Edinburgh, and the place always struck her as vaguely foreign in a way that even the various capitals of mainland Europe in which she’d spent considerably more time never had. Perhaps it was all the tourist trappings – the souvenir shops and crowds of holidaymakers fresh off the bus, constantly reminding you that you were an interloper.

At least she didn’t have far to go. Her destination, a flat in the New Town, was a brisk fifteen-minute walk west of the station, along Princes Street and up towards Queen Street Gardens. Even so, she was a little breathless as she strode along Queen Street, past the rows of elegant Georgian townhouses until she came to the one at the end with the brightly coloured flower baskets hanging from the ground floor windows. She consulted the column of brass name plaques, each with its own buzzer, before ringing the one for Flat 0/2.

A moment later, the door opened, and bustling, birdlike Pamela Macklin was beaming out at her from the communal foyer.

‘There she is! About time, slowpoke! We were beginning to think we’d have to send out the sniffer dogs. Come here, you!’

And then, before Anna had time to prepare herself, Pamela pulled her into an enthusiastic hug, which Anna tried to reciprocate while simultaneously avoiding crushing the plant she was carrying.

Pamela released her, giving her an appraising look.

‘Well, look at you! Who’d have thought you’d scrub up so well? Is that some rouge on your cheeks or is it just because it’s so blooming parky out there? Come in, come in. Shut out the night!’

Anna gratefully stepped over the threshold, fighting to manoeuvre both herself and the plant through the narrow doorway.

Pamela raised an eyebrow. ‘Taken up a new career in forestry?’

‘What? Oh, uh, no. Just a little housewarming present.’ Anna gave a sheepish shrug. ‘It looked smaller in the shop.’

‘Well,’ said Pamela amiably, as Anna followed her across the communal hallway towards a glossy black front door with a polished brass numberplate, ‘you didn’t have to, but thanks all the same . . . though I’m not sure where we’re going to put it. Can you believe this place was once a single house? Now there’s six of us, all living on top of each other like sardines in a can. Still, all in all, I’m moving up in the world, wouldn’t you say?’

She ushered Anna into the flat. Anna took in the hallway’s dark wood flooring; the high ceiling with its ornate cornicing. The smell of something rich and savoury hit her nostrils, accompanied by what she thought of as ‘dinner party music’ – agreeable, unintrusive and utterly, utterly forgettable.

‘Ger!’ called Pamela. ‘She’s here! Get yer bahookie out here!’

The door to what looked to be the kitchen opened and a man in his early thirties emerged, sporting red hair tied back in a bun. He was a large man in every sense of the word – both tall and wide, with an ample gut that strained against his T-shirt and the apron he wore over it.

‘Anna, this is Gerry Kerevan,’ said Pamela. ‘My other half, as you might say. Ger, meet Anna Scavolini, the friend I’ve been talking your ear off about.’

Anna smiled and gave Gerry a polite but restrained nod. ‘Gerry. Pleasure to meet you.’

‘Likewise,’ said Gerry jovially.

And then, before Anna knew what was happening, he stepped forward and folded her into a fulsome hug. For a moment, she was completely taken aback, her defensive instincts kicking in automatically – but then she found herself relaxing into it, feeling oddly safe and secure in this bear-like man’s arms.

‘Well,’ she said, laughing awkwardly as they finally broke apart, ‘hello.’

Gerry laughed too, somewhat sheepishly. ‘Sorry. I’m guessing Paz didn’t warn you I was a hugger.’

‘She didn’t . . . but it’s OK. Though I’m afraid the plant might have had it.’

Together, they inspected the now rather crumpled devil’s ivy.

‘Oh dear,’ said Pamela, appearing genuinely crestfallen as she assumed custody of it from Anna, who now wished she’d had the presence of mind to hand it over as soon as she crossed the threshold.

‘It’s true,’ Gerry agreed, rather soberly. ‘I’m a big brute who doesnae know his own strength.’

‘Gerry’s a Weegie like you,’ Pamela chimed in, as if this fully explained the overly familiar manner in which he’d greeted her.

Gerry grinned amiably. ‘Aye – abandoned the motherland a couple of years back on account of a certain special someone.’

‘Aww,’ Pamela cooed, slipping an arm through his.

Looking at the pair of them, Anna doubted she’d ever seen a more mismatched couple: Gerry so big and scruffy; Pamela, in her crisp white blouse and pleated skirt, such a prim little slip of a girl – woman, she hastily corrected herself.

‘So,’ said Gerry, giving Anna an appraising look, ‘the famous Anna Scavolini! I’ve gottae say, it’s been a long time coming, putting a face tae that name. I’ve been hearing no end of chatter about you.’

‘All of it good, hopefully,’ said Anna, trotting out the one line she’d learned as a response to that comment and continued to deploy, despite knowing full well how utterly corny it was.

Gerry grinned. ‘Ah, now, that would be telling.’

There was a lull of silence, during which Anna belatedly realised it was her turn to say something.

‘Um . . . you have a lovely house . . . flat. Houseflat.’

Ugh. What was it with her and words tonight?

‘Quite something, in’t it?’ Gerry agreed. ‘Miles away from the sort of dives I’m used to, lemme tell you. Still keep thinking some Jeeves and Wooster type in a penguin suit’s gonnae pop out of the wall panels and give me intae trouble for putting my feet on the upholstery or using the wrong soup spoon.’ He shrugged fatalistically and nodded to Pamela. ‘But this one had her heart set on it, and I could hardly say no to these dimples.’

Pamela gave a little squeal of contentment and clutched Gerry’s arm tighter. Anna smiled awkwardly.

For a few moments, the three of them just stood there in the hallway, smiling vacuously at one another. Then, mercifully, the spell was broken by the sound of a timer beeping in the kitchen.

‘Um, I’d better get back in there,’ said Gerry, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘The tajine’s at a critical point.’ He turned to go.

‘Ger, lovely,’ said Pamela, ‘be a sweetie and take this off my hands, will you?’

She handed the devil’s ivy to him. He accepted it gingerly, evidently concerned he might do further damage to it.

‘Don’t chuck it out just yet,’ she called after him as he departed with the unfortunate plant. ‘We’ll take it out back later and give it a proper Christian burial.’

As the door to the kitchen swung shut again, she turned to Anna.

‘Shall we . . . ?’

Together, they headed through to the living room – a rather sparsely furnished affair, with a sofa, an armchair and a coffee table but no ornaments or nicknacks on the mantelpiece and only a solitary print of an acrylic landscape hanging from the wall. The whole thing had the air of a work in progress.

Anna raised an eyebrow at Pamela. ‘A man who cooks? You’ve hit the jackpot there.’

Pamela grinned. ‘He cleans too. I’ve got him trained well.’ She gestured to the sofa. ‘Now, put your feet up, and you can tell me all your news and I’ll tell you all of mine. It’s been such a long time since we last saw each other. Shocking, truly shocking state of affairs.’

‘We’ve spoken on the phone,’ Anna pointed out, slightly defensively, as she took a seat at one end of the sofa.

Pamela settled into the other, giving her a look of mock consternation. ‘Anna, you know it’s not the same. I’ve missed seeing your bonny face. I can’t believe it’s been – actually, how long has it been?’

‘Since before lockdown,’ said Anna, knowing for sure that she was responsible for this shocking state of affairs and feeling suitably guilty about it.

‘It was the New Year bash at your place,’ recalled Pamela, ‘right before you upped sticks for Italy. Back when we were all still labouring under the illusion that the whole world wasn’t about to change beyond recognition. But listen to me, still wittering on like a mad loon! Tell me, what’s new in Anna Scavolini Land? Is it true you’ve gone part-time? You jammy so-and-so! Me, I’m rushed off my feet as per. But I can’t complain. It’s good to keep busy. Never enough hours in the day, though, am I right?’

Anna smiled. ‘No, there certainly aren’t.’

She’d forgotten what a motormouth Pamela could be, capable of talking your ear off till the cows came home, barely giving you a chance to draw breath. Still, right now, Anna was more than happy to let her host dominate the flow of conversation. Indeed, the prospect of listening to Pamela rabbiting on about her various trials and tribulations sounded far preferable to confronting her own present worries, which she was determined to park for the duration of this evening.

‘Why don’t you tell me your news first?’ she suggested. She gestured to their surroundings. ‘All this, for a start. Last time I was through to see you, you were still renting that pokey bedsit in Newington.’

‘It’s true,’ said Pamela happily. ‘I’ve finally got my foot on the property ladder – which, in this economy, is no mean feat, let me tell you. A part of me thought it was never going to happen. And now, look at me.’ She spread her palms wide, inviting Anna to behold her in her triumph. ‘I’m a grown-up. I have ARRIVED.’

Anna smiled, amused by Pamela’s obvious pride. ‘I know. A designer flat, a joint mortgage – talk about your major commitments. All you need now is a Golden Retriever and you’ll have the full domestic package.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t get a dog,’ said Pamela earnestly. ‘I’m allergic.’

And I’m the one who gets accused of being overly literal, thought Anna.

‘Speaking of commitments,’ said Pamela, with a playful little eyebrow-raise, ‘notice anything?’

It took Anna a moment to cotton on to what Pamela was referring to. In fact, it wasn’t until she’d inspected the younger woman from head to toe and Pamela had helpfully held up her hands, fingers spread out, that Anna finally noticed the small diamond ring on the fourth finger of her otherwise unadorned left hand.

‘You haven’t.’

Pamela nodded, giddy with excitement.

‘But that’s . . . Pamela, I’m so made up for you.’

Pamela grinned. ‘Ger popped the question on our first night here. Got down on one knee and everything, even though the floor wasn’t carpeted and he’s got dodgy joints.’

‘Well, that certainly demonstrates dedication to the cause.’

As someone who regarded the institution of marriage with a deep distrust she wasn’t sure she could fully justify, Anna had always struggled to feign enthusiasm for what, at the end of the day, she saw as an administrative formality at best and an archaic act of subjugation at worst, so she hoped she’d managed to sound suitably pleased. At the end of the day, she was happy Pamela was happy, and she supposed she ought to leave it at that and not overthink things.

‘Actually,’ she smiled, ‘I did wonder why you’d invited me over at such short notice. But it all makes perfect sense now. You know, if you’d given me advance warning, I’d have brought something more substantial than a plant.’

‘It’s true,’ agreed Pamela, ‘though, if it makes you feel any better, I had other reasons too. I suppose . . .’

She hesitated, an apprehensive frown replacing her previous expression of contentment.

‘Well,’ she began again, ‘I suppose you could say I had something of an ulterior motive.’

‘Oh?’ said Anna, intrigued by this development and, if she was being honest with herself, finding it a bit ominous. ‘Tell me more.’

Pamela hesitated for a moment, then leaned towards Anna with a furtive expression, beckoning her closer.

‘The thing is, I was sort of hoping to talk business with you. That’s if—’

But at that moment, the door swung open and Gerry came lumbering in. Pamela’s lips snapped shut like a Venus flytrap.

‘Well, then,’ said Gerry, a note of amusement in his voice, ‘what are you two girlies conspiring about behind my back?’

Red-cheeked and flustered, Pamela said nothing. Anna realised she was going to have to salvage the situation herself.

‘Pamela was just telling me about your big news,’ she said, smiling up at Gerry. ‘I gather congratulations are in order.’

Gerry grinned. He headed over to the sofa and perched on the arm next to Pamela. Pamela glanced briefly in Anna’s direction. To Anna’s eyes, she looked decidedly uncomfortable – almost guilty.

‘And I was saying to her,’ Anna went on quickly, ‘I still haven’t heard the story of how the two of you got together.’

‘You mean she hasn’t told you? It’s actually quite a funny story. We met at a WoW convention.’

‘Wow?’ Anna repeated uncomprehendingly.

‘World of Warcraft.’

‘Oh,’ said Anna, not really any the wiser.

‘It’s an MMO,’ put in Pamela, recovering some of her composure. ‘You know, a massively multiplayer online game. You’ve literally never heard of it?’

‘I’ve heard of it,’ said Anna, somewhat defensively. She vaguely remembered Sal, Zoe’s girlfriend, having mentioned it at some point. ‘I just never figured you for a fan.’

Gerry she could readily picture. With his ample belly and scruffy T-shirt, he had ‘gamer’ written all over him. But prim, workaholic Pamela? She supposed it took all sorts.

Pamela grinned, though, to Anna’s eyes, her good humour still seemed a bit forced.

‘Guilty as charged. It was about two years ago at the SEC – the last one they put on before lockdown. I was there cosplaying as a Night Elf huntress. Ger was an Orc druid.’

Gerry winked at Anna. ‘She rocks a chainmail bikini.’

Anna felt her eyes widening involuntarily.

Pamela’s cheeks flushed once again – though it seemed to Anna with pride this time rather than embarrassment.

‘I was behind him in the line at the concessions stand,’ she explained, ‘and I’m afraid I wasn’t looking where I was going, so I sort of trod on his robe . . .’

‘In the process, very nearly causing a serious wardrobe malfunction.’

‘And he said to me . . .’ She adopted a deep, pompous baritone. ‘ “Don’t you ever look where you’re putting your feet?” ’

And she said to me . . .’ Gerry adopted a squeaky but equally haughty voice. ‘ “Well, I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t drag your robes on the ground!” ’

‘And we just sort of stood there looking at each other for a few seconds.’

‘And then we both started laughing like a pair of right eejits.’

‘And we just . . . hit it off.’

‘It should never have worked,’ declared Gerry philosophically. ‘I’m Horde, she’s Alliance . . .’

‘Sworn adversaries,’ said Pamela, deadly serious.

‘But it was like it was fated to be. Two warriors from rival factions brought together by the irresistible pull of forbidden love. And now, she’s my wee elven princess . . .’

‘And he’s my big cuddly teddy bear.’

As much as the cloying sweetness of the scene threatened to set off Anna’s gag reflex, there was a part of her that couldn’t help but feel ever so slightly envious of what they had – or, if not their specific set of circumstances, then at least the happiness it so clearly brought them.

She cleared her throat. ‘It’s nice – that you managed to find each other.’

‘Tell me about it!’ said Gerry. ‘Still have to pinch myself that someone like her would so much as look twice at someone like me.’ Detaching his arm from Pamela, he got to his feet. ‘Anyway . . . I was just coming to tell you, food’ll be on the table in five minutes.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Make that one and a half.’

With that, he ducked out of the room.

Pamela turned to Anna brightly. ‘Better shake a leg.’ She got up to follow Gerry.

‘You were saying you wanted to—’ Anna began.

But Pamela just silenced her with a brief, firm headshake, before hurrying out of the room without meeting her eye.

Mystified – and, if she was being honest with herself, more than a little troubled by all this cloak-and-dagger business – Anna got to her feet and followed her.

A couple of hours had passed. Justice had been done to the tajine, the dinner plates had been cleared away, and, over wine and a variety of cheeses, Anna, Pamela and Gerry continued their conversation at the dining room table. Gerry, it turned out, was most interested to hear about the work Anna did and questioned her about it relentlessly. In the process, Anna found herself having to correct more than a few of the misconceptions people commonly held about the role of a criminologist. No, she didn’t profile offenders for a living. No, she didn’t visit crime scenes and determine, based on the length of the perpetrator’s stride, that he was a thirty-six-year-old white male who lived in a three-storey tenement in Baillieston with his ailing grandmother.

Not officially, at any rate.

‘And what is it you do, Gerry?’ she asked – thinking, not for the first time, that our obsession with finding out what people we’d only just met did for a living must say something rather damning about humanity as a species . . . and about herself for contributing to keeping the convention alive.

‘Oh, he’s a total computer genius,’ said Pamela, cutting in before Gerry could respond.

Gerry laughed self-consciously. ‘ “Genius” might be overstating it just a tad . . .’

‘He’s just being modest,’ Pamela said to Anna. ‘Couple of years back, he developed this app that’s the toast of the town. Made a proper mint off it, so he did. How else d’you think we were able to afford this place? Not on my poverty wages, that’s for sure.’

Gerry took a sip of wine and shook his head. ‘Oh, I’m nothing special. I just spotted a gap in the market and took advantage of it. My business partner, Richard – now he’s the one with real nous. Got us into all the right meetings with the right people. You can have all the brainwaves in the world, but, when it comes down to it, it’s all about knowing the right people.’

‘It’s the way of the world,’ said Anna, once again feeling rather guilty. After all, did she not owe her current, highly desirable employment status to having the university principal’s ear?

‘It’s true,’ agreed Pamela, pushing a bit of cheese around on her plate in a way that seemed far too casual to actually be casual. ‘Whether we like it or not, it’s all about making use of the connections we have to get the outcomes we want. We shouldn’t feel guilty about making the most of the cards we’re dealt.’

She lifted her glass to her lips and drained it in a single gulp.

Here we go, thought Anna. This was it: the point they’d been leading up to, ever since Pamela’s cryptic reference, several hours earlier, to wanting to ‘talk business’.

‘Anna,’ said Pamela, studiously casual, ‘what do you know about the Leanne McColm case?’

There was a loud clatter as Gerry dropped his knife. He looked at Pamela, askance.

‘Not much,’ said Anna carefully. She could tell Gerry was far from happy and had no desire to compound this by saying the wrong thing. ‘Just what’s been in the papers. She was found at the foot of some steps in Springburn near the start of the year with a fatal head injury. Her partner was charged with her murder a few weeks later.’

Pamela nodded. ‘That’s right. And he’s currently languishing in HMP Barlinnie, in spite of his protestations of innocence.’

‘Paz . . .’ Gerry began.

‘Hmm?’ Pamela glanced at Gerry with a look of mild surprise, as if she had no idea what he could possibly be objecting to.

‘Why are you doing this?’ he hissed in a low, aggrieved voice.

‘What do you mean?’ she retorted, matching his volume, as if that was somehow going to stop Anna, sitting right next to them, from hearing. ‘You know Anna’s good at this sort of thing. She looks into cases just like this. Gets results.’

‘That’s just it,’ Gerry snapped. ‘I don’t want her looking into this one.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Anna, feeling both awkward and vaguely irritated by the feeling that she was being set up in some way. ‘Is the accused a client of yours?’

Pamela, seemingly remembering her manners, swivelled back round to face Anna.

‘Unfortunately not. I wish I could represent him, but it’s not possible because of the . . .’ She glanced at Gerry. ‘. . . family connection.’

‘Family?’ repeated Anna, still mystified.

‘Sean’s my brother,’ said Gerry sourly.

Of course. She remembered the accused’s name now – Sean Kerevan. She even had a vague memory of his face, emblazoned on the television screen during the evening news on the day he was charged. Not much of a family resemblance, she thought. The face she remembered had been harsh and intimidating, with a Hitler Youth buzz cut and dark, unfriendly eyes – about as far a cry from big, cuddly Gerry as you could imagine.

She remembered, too, the corresponding photo of the victim: a young woman with a slight build and a mousy brown fringe, captured in a pub on a night out, glancing over her shoulder at the camera with a rather guileless smile. ‘Plain’ was how an unkind person might have described her, but, even from the blurry photo, it was clear she had the sort of warm, inviting personality that made it impossible for folk not to like her.

Now Gerry and Pamela were hissing at each other again, arguing back and forth as if Anna wasn’t there.

‘We agreed we weren’t going to involve anyone from outside,’ said Gerry.

‘Can’t think why,’ retorted Pamela, almost indignantly. ‘Surely you want him to get the best possible chance?’

‘Sean made his bed. If he really didn’t do it, he can put his trust in the system, same as every other man in history who’s been accused of murdering his girlfriend. In case you’re forgetting, he’s already got a solicitor.’

‘An old clock-puncher who never saw a corner he didn’t feel like cutting!’ Pamela all but spluttered.

Gerry shot a brief glance at Anna before turning to Pamela again.

‘This was supposed to be a private family matter!’

Pamela scoffed. ‘Family! What family? When was the last time you even saw your brother? If you and him are so tight, why is it you’ve never so much as introduced me to him?’

‘Excuse me,’ said Anna.

Jarred by her unexpected interjection, the pair stopped arguing and turned to face her.

‘I think you’re both forgetting something,’ she went on, keeping her tone firm but even-tempered. ‘All of this is immaterial since neither of you has stopped to ask me whether this is something I have any intention of getting involved in.

‘Which I don’t, incidentally,’ she went on as Pamela opened her mouth to speak. ‘Quite apart from anything else, I’m not the virtuoso private eye you’re making me out to be. I’m just an amateur who happened to get lucky a couple of times. Plus, in order to do something like this any sort of justice at all, I’d essentially have to put my life on hold; devote every spare hour I have to it. And it’s not as if I have a surfeit of those to begin with.’

‘You work part-time,’ said Pamela quietly. ‘You’ve got more time on your hands than anyone else I know.’

Anna ground her teeth. She’d walked right into that one.

‘It’s just not going to happen,’ she said, with what she hoped was sufficient finality to put the matter to bed. ‘I’m sorry.’

She hadn’t mentioned the third and perhaps most compelling reason of all for not wanting to get involved: the element of personal risk. Supposing, just supposing, Sean was innocent after all, it meant the real killer was out there somewhere, lying low. And people who’d literally got away with murder tended not to take kindly to amateur sleuths trying to uncover their crimes. Pamela ought to know that better than anyone. Anna wondered whether she’d told Gerry how she’d got the scar on her abdomen, or why she didn’t have a spleen.

Wordlessly, Gerry scraped back his chair and got to his feet. Anna and Pamela sat in silence as he lumbered around the table, noisily gathering up the empty plates before departing towards the kitchen with them, almost but not quite slamming the door behind him.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Pamela, once the dust had settled. ‘He’s not normally like this.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Anna. ‘He’s obviously going through a tough time.’

Neither of them was able to meet the other’s eye.

‘You wouldn’t think,’ said Pamela pointedly, ‘given how little he says about it.’

‘No one likes airing their dirty laundry.’

Anna realised, as soon as she’d said it, that it had sounded like a rebuke. That hadn’t been her intention, but it was now too late to take it back.

Pamela gave no response. She sat, staring morosely at the table. She must surely have known a bust-up like this was inevitable as soon as she broached the topic. That was why she’d been so insistent on waiting till dinner was out of the way, Anna realised: to avoid spoiling their meal. Though, in retrospect, she wondered if it had really made any difference. The tajine, which had seemed so rich and satisfying at the time, now sat like a lead weight in her stomach.

‘Dinner was lovely,’ she said, feeling obliged to say something to break the silence. ‘I’ll need to get the recipe from you.’

‘Of course!’ said Pamela immediately, eagerly latching onto this safe, uncontroversial topic. ‘I’ll forward it to you.’

‘Got much on next week?’

‘No rest for the wicked.’

‘Heh, tell me about it.’

The silence returned, even heavier and more awkward than before. Both of them, it seemed, were determined to avoid acknowledging the elephant in the room.

At length, judging that she’d left it long enough, Anna stirred in her seat.

‘Right, then – I’d probably best be making a move. It’s a fair old trek back to Glasgow, and I’ve got the babysitter on the clock.’

She knew she was clutching for excuses.

Pamela looked up, her face crumpling in disappointment. ‘Is this because I asked you to . . . ?’ She trailed off. ‘I hope you don’t think the only reason I invited you here was—’

‘No, it’s not,’ said Anna firmly. ‘And I don’t. The truth is, I’m feeling a bit wiped out. It’s been a long week.’

And it was true. The ‘wiped out’ part, at any rate – though, now that she was only working three days a week, it felt somewhat churlish to complain, especially to someone who put in far more than the typical hours of a full-time job.

Pamela studied her intently. ‘It’s true – you are looking a bit peely-wally. Hope it’s nothing contagious! Ger and me both had COVID over Christmas. Total nightmare!’

Anna felt suddenly self-conscious. Was she looking under the weather?

Pamela got to her feet. ‘Well, if you’re dead set on going, at least let me walk you back to the station.’

‘You don’t need to.’

‘Honestly, I insist. We don’t want you keeling over on your way down Princes Street and being left dependent on a good Samaritan stopping to help you!’

‘I . . .’ Anna began, then stopped. It occurred to her that Pamela’s offer probably wasn’t wholly born out of altruistic concern for her. Odds were, Pamela was simply looking for an excuse – any excuse – to get out of the house, delaying the inevitable clash with Gerry. Anna met her eyes, caught the faint glint of desperation in them and knew she had no option but to play along.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘You can make sure I don’t come a cropper.’

Pamela grinned. ‘That’s more like it. You sit tight. I’ll get our coats.’

They set off at a leisurely pace, walking side by side through the darkened city. As they made their way along Queen Street, Pamela slipped her arm through Anna’s. It took a considerable effort on Anna’s part not to pull away. Physical contact like this had always made her feel vaguely uncomfortable, particularly when the other party didn’t ask before initiating it. She worried that people might assume they were a couple, then worried about what it said about her that she considered that something to worry about.

As they walked, they talked about this and that, mostly catching one another up on various bits of news about mutual acquaintances. Anna once again found herself wracked by guilt over how long it had been since they’d last seen each other. It really shouldn’t have taken something as quasi-official as an invitation to a housewarming to haul her through to Edinburgh.

As they turned down Frederick Street, she realised that, without having been conscious of it, they’d begun to speak about the two Kerevan brothers. She wasn’t sure which of them had initiated it, though she suspected Pamela was the one who’d steered their conversation towards the subject. After all, she was the one who had something to gain by bringing it up.

‘Gerry’s the older of the pair,’ she said. ‘By about three years, I think. They grew up in Easterhouse – a proper “school of hard knocks” upbringing, from what I can gather. Their parents both died young, and they didn’t have any other family they were close to – so as you can imagine, they both had to make their own way in the world.

‘Gerry’s the one who left it all behind him; you know, made something of himself. Sean never really managed to break free of his roots, and I think there’s always been a wee bit of resentment there. On both sides, I hasten to add. At least, Sean resents Gerry, and Gerry resents that Sean resents him . . . if that makes sense.’ She paused. ‘There’s also the Leanne of it all.’

‘What d’you mean?’ said Anna.

‘She and Gerry used to go out before she got with Sean.’

Anna’s eyes widened in surprise.

‘They weren’t together long,’ Pamela clarified, as they turned onto George Street. ‘At least, as far as I can tell. From what I understand, Leanne ended it with Gerry more than three years ago, and she got together with Sean shortly after. That was a good year before Gerry and I met. Not that Ger likes to talk about that period in his life. And I mean, it’s understandable. Would you tell your current squeeze every last detail of your last relationship?’

‘I haven’t got a current squeeze.’

Pamela rolled her eyes and smiled indulgently. ‘My point still stands. I’m willing to bet it still smarts – you know, this sense that, after things didn’t work out between them, Sean sort of muscled in on his turf.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose,’ said Anna.

It said a lot, she thought, about men – about their territorial nature and their undying belief that they ‘owned’ the women in their lives; an ownership that still persisted long after they and the woman in question went their separate ways. The thought that even one as seemingly wholesome and gentle as Gerry might not be immune to such attitudes was, for some reason, deeply disappointing to her.

‘The point is,’ Pamela went on, ‘I’m not trying to make out Ger’s a saint in all of this. But it does explain why he’s got the blinders on a bit when it comes to Sean. It’s hard for him to think anything but the worst of him.’

‘Have you ever met him?’ Anna asked.

Pamela shook his head. ‘Not in person, though I did talk to him on the blower once when he rang looking for Ger, not long after we got together.’

‘And what did you make of him?’

Pamela hesitated – reluctant, it seemed, to share her true feelings.

‘Truth be told, I didn’t like him much. I thought he was . . . loutish, if that’s not too prejudiced a term. He just seemed . . . sort of closed off, you know? Like he wasn’t interested in us becoming friends, so he saw no point in being civil to me.’

Anna didn’t say as much, but this description chimed a lot with her own assumptions about the man based on his mug shot. She supposed that said more about her than it did about him, but she couldn’t help wondering why Pamela felt so compelled to go out of her way to help someone with whom, by her own admission, she hadn’t exactly hit it off.

‘I’m pretty sure that was the last time Ger spoke to him too,’ Pamela said. ‘I’m not saying he cut Sean out of his life on my account – like I say, there were other factors at play. But I suppose there’s a teensy wee part of me that clings to the thought that he chose me over him.’

They crossed Hanover Street and continued towards St Andrew Square, the Melville Monument looming tall and dark against the night sky ahead of them.

‘The case against Sean,’ said Anna. ‘What does it hinge on?’

There was a certain weary inevitability to the question – as if, deep down, and for all her protestations back at the flat, she’d known all along that it was only a matter of time before her resolve crumbled.

If Pamela was in any way elated by Anna’s expression of interest, she did an impressive job of hiding it.

‘From what I can gather, it’s mostly circumstantial. The body was found within walking distance of their house in Springburn, but the theory is she never made it home that night. An eyewitness saw the two of them in the city centre a couple of hours earlier, heading up Trongate. She – the witness – gave an interview to one of the tabloid rags. Said Sean was dragging Leanne by the arm and yelling at her.

‘Then, not long after, the two of them were caught on CCTV together at High Street Station, and again getting off a train at Springburn. At least, the police say it’s him. He’s got his hood up, and the quality’s about what you’d expect. But the guy in the footage has Sean’s build, and the hoodie he’s wearing matches one Sean owned. The news programmes broadcast it as part of an appeal, not long before they charged him.’

‘I know,’ said Anna. ‘I remember it.’

It wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you forgot in a hurry: a fuzzy, high-angle, black-and-white video of two figures passing through the doors at High Street Station, Leanne in front and the man alleged to be Sean close behind, practically frogmarching her. For some reason, footage like that always seemed to accentuate the existing characteristics of the people it captured – in this case, making Leanne seem even smaller and more vulnerable, and Sean even more ogre-like than he’d appeared in his mug shot.

‘No evidence to suggest she was killed at home, then?’ Anna asked. ‘I mean, if they reckon she never made it back . . .’

‘Right,’ said Pamela. ‘No evidence of a struggle, no blood, no anything. But – and here’s the interesting part – wherever she was killed, it wasn’t where the body was found.’

‘No?’

‘The SOCOs performed a thorough examination of the crime scene and surrounding area. There was none of the blood splatter or other forensic evidence you’d expected to find, and the body bore all the hallmarks of having been badly staged. Like, whoever put her there wanted it to look like she’d fallen down the steps – only the positioning of the body bore no resemblance to a fall. And the only injury was a single blow to the back of the head – again, inconsistent with a fall.’

‘What would someone have had to gain from moving her?’

‘Beats me, but whatever happened to her, it didn’t happen where she was found.’

They passed the old Capital Building, now an Italian restaurant, and headed south along St David Street towards the imposing landmark of the Scott Monument.

‘And what does Sean say to all of this?’ asked Anna.

‘He says he didn’t do it, obviously. And that the eyewitness sighting and the CCTV footage aren’t him.’

‘Does he have anything approaching an alibi?’

Pamela winced. ‘That’s where things get a little tricky.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, at first, he claimed he’d been out visiting a friend at the time. Then, when he was asked to identify the friend, he changed his story. Said he’d got mixed up and he’d actually been out for a run.’

‘What about tracking data?’ said Anna. ‘His phone or a FitBit or whatever.’

She thought of her own morning runs, which she still tried to fit in at least three times a week, whenever work or ferrying Jack to school didn’t get in the way. Her every movement tracked on her watch, all in the name of refining her route and trying to better her time. Best not to think too much about who was collecting all that data, and for what purpose.

‘He says he forgot to take them with him,’ replied Pamela. ‘The tracking data bears that out.’ She looked at Anna and winced again. ‘I know. Not the best look given what he’s accused of.’

‘It’s really not. Also, who mixes up visiting a friend and going out running? Especially on the same night someone supposedly murdered your girlfriend.’

The road began to slope downward as they neared Princes Street. The monument loomed ever larger, ever blacker against the night sky.

‘It’s true,’ Pamela agreed. ‘He’s definitely not telling the whole story there. But it just doesn’t seem right, condemning the man off the back of a memory lapse, however much of a stretch it might seem.’

‘Plenty of men have been convicted for less,’ said Anna.

‘You’re not wrong there,’ said Pamela quietly.

They continued on in silence, crossing at the traffic lights and cutting through the eastern edge of Princes Street Gardens towards the station’s Waverley Bridge entrance.

As they made their way down the steps and into the station, Pamela piped up again.

‘There’s something else I should probably mention. Leanne was pregnant.’

For a moment, Anna didn’t respond. She wasn’t sure whether it was some ingrained biological response born out of being a mother herself, but this news had left her feeling profoundly queasy.

‘Did Sean know?’ she asked eventually.

‘Not till the police ambushed him with the news following the postmortem. At least, that’s the impression he gave, according to what I’ve been able to piece together through the legal grapevine.’

‘But you suspect otherwise?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just thinking, if he did know . . . well, it makes it that much harder to picture him killing Leanne, doesn’t it – knowing full well he was killing his unborn child too?’

Anna wasn’t so sure. Untold numbers of pregnant women, battered or killed by their partners, suggested otherwise. As experienced a solicitor as Pamela was, having no doubt seen more than her fair share of the damage humans were capable of inflicting on each other, she could be profoundly naïve about certain things. Anna knew she was predisposed to see the best in people, and had long suspected that this was especially true when it came to those accused of the worst offences – as counterintuitive as that might seem.

They continued through the station, heading down the escalator to the lower level.

‘You mentioned something about Sean’s solicitor,’ said Anna. ‘Something about him being a clock-puncher?’

Pamela made a disgusted face. ‘Maurice Hanley. He’s a horror. Spends all his time on social media ranting about asylum seekers and trans people. I wouldn’t trust that man to represent my budgerigar, let alone my own flesh and blood.’

Was that a dig against Gerry, Anna wondered? With the fortune he’d supposedly amassed from the app he’d developed, he could presumably have afforded to secure his brother the best legal representation money could buy, had he felt so inclined.

‘Word is he’s already written Sean off as guilty and is doing the bare minimum he can get away with,’ Pamela added.

Anna gave her a look, trying to gauge whether Pamela had credible grounds for believing this or was simply letting her own pre-existing views on the man feed her imagination.

Pamela shrugged defensively, as if she’d guessed Anna’s thoughts. ‘It’s a high-profile case. People talk.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘The fact Sean has past convictions for aggravated assault probably doesn’t help matters.’

‘Probably not, no,’ said Anna, wondering if this man, of whom she already felt she well and truly had the measure, had any redeeming qualities.

‘I also seem to recall something in the press about him having been overheard threatening to kill Leanne,’ she said.

Pamela’s expression became increasingly strained. ‘Ah, yes, that,’ she said, as if she’d been hoping Anna wouldn’t bring up that particular detail. ‘I’ll admit, that doesn’t exactly do him any favours. Still, there might be another explanation . . .’

Anna gave her an incredulous look, and Pamela visibly wilted under her gaze.

‘. . . though, if there is one, I can’t think of it right now,’ she admitted.

They came to a stop not far from the ticket barriers. Anna turned to face Pamela.

‘I’m going to regret it if I don’t ask this, so I’m just going to come out and say it. Given everything we already know about this man, what is it that makes you so keen to help him?’

Pamela raised her arms helplessly and let them fall to her sides with a slap. ‘It’s like I said to you once before. It’s not up to me to determine someone’s guilt or innocence. That’s for a jury to decide. But I do believe, deep down in my core, that everyone, whoever they are, has a right to fair trial.’

‘And your feeling is that Sean won’t get that.’

For a moment, Pamela was silent, chewing her bottom lip and avoiding Anna’s eye as she mulled over whether to continue. Eventually, she seemed to come to a decision.

‘A few years back,’ she said, ‘when I was still a baby solicitor, I had a run-in with Hanley. We didn’t work for the same firm, but, due to a bunch of circumstances too complicated to go into here, he inherited one of my clients from me. At the time, I passed him everything I had on the case, including crucial evidence that would’ve holed the prosecution below the waterline.

‘He didn’t use it. Either he deliberately sat on it or else he simply forgot about it. But, whether due to outright malice or just workaday incompetence, my client went to prison for something we could have proved he didn’t do.’ She paused. ‘And now that man’s representing my future brother-in-law.’ She looked at Anna, her eyes wide and plaintive. ‘You can see my dilemma here, surely.’

‘Yes,’ Anna admitted – though she still felt, if she was in Pamela’s shoes, that she’d be leaving Sean to sink or swim on his own steam. She supposed that was simply further proof, if any was needed, that she lacked her younger friend’s far greater capacity for human compassion.

‘Come and see him with me,’ said Pamela suddenly, her voice urgent and insistent. ‘I can get us a meeting with him – I know I can.’ And then, before Anna had time to process this, let alone respond, ‘Just a meeting. That’s all I’m asking. No strings attached.’

‘I—’

‘Please. The case is still a way off going to trial. Right now, they’re in the middle of precognition – statements, expert opinions, all of that. There’s still time for us to make a difference. But the clock’s ticking.’

Anna’s eyes strayed to the departure board. She had less than three minutes before her train was due to leave, and then it would be a twenty-five-minute wait for the slow train – the one that stopped at every station between Edinburgh and Glasgow and took twice as long. The clock was ticking in more ways than one.

Her eyes met Pamela’s again, and she realised there was no way she could both let Pamela down gently and make her train. It was one or the other . . .

Or say yes.

‘Just a meeting,’ she said.

‘Just a meeting,’ said Pamela.

‘I form my own opinion of the man. If I don’t like what I see, I get to walk away without being made to feel like I’ve broken a promise.’

Pamela nodded emphatically, lips pressed together in a desperate smile.

Anna sighed inwardly, her fate sealed.

‘Fine.’

Pamela bunched her fists and let out a little squeal of triumph. Sensing that she was about to either jump for joy or threw her arms around Anna, Anna decided she was going to have to defuse the situation – and fast.

‘Uh-uh. Any public histrionics and the deal’s off.’

With a considerable effort, Pamela managed to contain herself, clasping her hands together in a bid to prevent them from doing anything inappropriate.

‘I’ll get back to you with a date and time ASAP,’ she promised.

‘You do that.’ Anna glanced at the departure board again. ‘And now I really do need to go.’

‘Of course. Go-go gadget! Catch your train. Love to Jack.’

Anna, already hurrying towards the turnstile, nodded distractedly. She fished her phone out of her shoulder bag as she went, scrambling to open the ScotRail app and select the return ticket, before buzzing herself through. She boarded the train and collapsed into a seat just before the doors slammed shut.

As the train thundered westwards towards Glasgow, the carriage bucking and swaying with every join in the track, Anna took out the reading glasses she still couldn’t get used to, despite having worn them for the last several weeks. If it wasn’t the frames interfering with her field of vision and distracting her from what she was trying to read, it was the fact they picked up every speck of dust going, as well as umpteen fingerprints she swore she hadn’t put there, resulting in her constantly having to clean them . . .

Doing her best to ignore the growing pain behind her right eye – a dull ache that had started to come on over dinner, and, going by past experience, would only get worse as the night wore on – she tapped ‘Leanne McColm murder’ into Google, opened the first article, and began to read.